


The Artist, The Agent

by MayAChance



Category: CHERUB - Robert Muchamore, Criminal Minds
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Child Spies, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:50:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayAChance/pseuds/MayAChance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a young age, Spencer Reid has been trained in all sorts of matters. As one of CHERUB's best, his final mission is particularly interesting. Coincidentally, his final mission is a case for the BAU.</p><p>No knowledge of CHERUB is needed to read this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist, The Agent

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in progress for a few days and finally decided that it was finished.

It was not the first time Jennifer Jareau had seen a child be brought in for questioning, rather the most recent in a very long line.

The children were all very different, of course. There had been an abused, gothic boy from a school where teens were asphyxiating themselves in an attempt to win a 'game'. The bruising around his neck had spoken louder than his words, and the 'game' shut down. Another child was the eldest daughter of a serial killing couple, who had ended up in an intensive psychiatric program at a high security asylum. Most of the children that they brought in, JJ felt bad for. Too young to realize the consequences of their actions, too young to avoid the pressure parents might have forced upon them. But this particular child had a choice, they knew.

Spencer Holmes was a small boy of thirteen. His hair was smooth and the same dark chestnut as a polished mahogany table, tiny ringlets curling through it every little while; the fluffy hair rested lightly around his forehead, shorter in the back than the front. Eyes, spaced perfectly across his face, held the same honey tone as his hair, and he was slightly pale despite the warm light of the San Francisco summers. Not sickly though, just not tanned. His colouration matched his large blue glasses well.

If JJ were to judge Holmes based solely on his clothes, she would never have guessed that he was in any way involved with international human trafficking. The khaki slacks were tidy and straight, with not a wrinkle on them. Mismatching socks peaked out from beneath the slacks. The fully sleeved white dress shirt couldn't have been comfortable for the summer heat, but Holmes didn't look disgruntled in it. A tie, loose and clearly done without any of the finesse that JJ's supervisor Aaron Hotchner possessed, was a strange plum. Wrapped around his shoulders was a slightly out of place red cardigan.

Overall, Holmes looked like a student at a private school lacking a strict dress code. A shy, geeky one perhaps but a student nonetheless.

Behind her, JJ felt the approaching presence of a member of her team. As a member of the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI, she was highly attuned to the workings around her, able to read almost everyone with notable exceptions including CIA agents and star poker players.

"Why don't you talk to him," Hotch said, an air of strength as cold as stone surrounding him.

JJ glanced over her shoulder and nodded a confirmation at her boss. A moment later she slipped into the cool interior of the investigation room.

Seemingly unnecessary measures had been taken to insure that the boy didn't wander off. Considering that he was under full surveillance by both cameras and the FBI agents at all time, it seemed a little bit ridiculous. However, having seen the small, innocent looking boy perform advanced martial arts movements in a YouTube video Garcia had sent, JJ was well aware that the restraining handcuffs were beyond necessary.

Not once had JJ seen the petite child lift his head; not when he'd been taken in, nor when the officers had tried to talk to him. When JJ entered, his warm honey eyes darted upwards for a split second before returning to gaze at the table before him. A clink of metal, and JJ knew that he was fiddling with his hands, hunching over in what was almost a defense mechanism.

"Hey," JJ said in as gentle of a voice as she could muster, given the circumstances. "Are you thirsty, Spencer?" Her hand nudged at the plastic bottle of water resting next to her, shoving it gently towards him until it was easily within his reach. Holmes didn't react, save to dart his eyes upwards at JJ and then towards the bottle before returning to resting on his lap. There was another little clink, and JJ got the distinct sense that the boy was getting increasingly uncomfortable as time went on.

"Is there anything you want me to grab for you?" She asked, hoping to draw the youth out of his shell. "Maybe something to eat, or some paper and a pen?" Her coaxing was rewarded with a jaunty nod and tiny, flashed smile her way. "I'll be back in just a minute."

She left the room, letting the door close before speaking to her boss. "Has he been diagnosed with autism?"

With a frown, Hotch flicked through the small pile of paperwork. "Not that we know of. I think you're right, though. Keep up the good work."

There were several sheets of paper next to a printer nearby, and JJ snatched up several and pulled a pen from what seemed to be the local pile of such things. A moment later, she slipped back into the interrogation room and slid the paper and pen over to the boy.

In an instant reaction, Holmes seemed to perk up, fitting the pen into his small hand and beginning to draw it across the paper with a practiced ease. He was working in the centre, motions short and controlled, and with those motions he seemed to create something. Within just a minute, JJ could see the beginnings of an image being formed, an image that looked like the London Eye. As he worked, the art spiralled outwards from that point until JJ could see points like Big Ben and the River Thames.

Something changed in the boy as he continued; perhaps his face softened, making him look even younger and more child like.

The pen darted across the page and it was with the finesse of a hawk diving in for the kill that Holmes' work continued. JJ watched. "You're a wonderful artist, Spencer. Would you mind telling me how you learnt?"

He didn't answer, though did pause and glance up for half a second before returning to the work; it spiralled outwards in practiced motions, until it reached the edges of the page and a pair of names were scrawled in two separate corners. In the top left in a blank space, **LONDON** , like it was the most important thing in the world. In the bottom right corner, his pen flew across the paper to scrawl out his own name, a signature. _S_. _Holmes_.

The signature reminded JJ vaguely of one of her favourite TV shows, Sherlock, and how the tall detective likely signed things in a similar fashion.

"I am willing to talk to you," Holmes murmured and JJ was almost surprised by the soft British accent that greeted her. Despite the name, he sounded more like Dr. John Watson than he did Sherlock Holmes, no matter what last names might say. "But more specifically, I am willing to make you a deal." His words though, those belonged solely to Sherlock.

"What sort of deal?" JJ replied, both curious and concerned for that was normally the sort of thing that the guilty proposed.

Spencer Holmes had been arrested from a large ship docked on the shores near San Francisco, in which the agents had found several missing teens. Holmes had been asleep in a separate part of the ship, sharing a fair-sized room with another boy his age, whom they had identified as Aiden Moore. The boy was outspoken, though refused to discuss the human trafficking ring. Circumstantially speaking, it seemed impossible for Holmes not to be guilty given that he was sharing a room with their main suspect's son.

A soft hum came from the boy as he started a second piece of paper, this time beginning with a bateaux mouche, the boats from the Venice canals. "I have the evidence to get everyone there, victims excluded, in jail for a rather long time. I have pictures and I know where you can find the evidence that I don't have pictures of."

He stopped speaking, and JJ prompted him forwards. "And what would you like from us?"

"Nothing, really. I'd like to be able to go home without any trouble. That's really not much." There was a long pause before he spoke again. "And I'll tell you how I learned."

As though that sealed the deal, JJ let out a laugh. "I'll grab my supervisor and see what I can do, Spencer. Hang tight."

Emerging from the room, Hotch gave JJ a look; admittedly, such things were not even remotely bizarre for the tall Profiler, but this look was particular. _What do you think?_ His eyes asked, and a moment later her repeated the sentiment; "Do you think he's serious? Taking pictures of that sort of thing is really risky, especially for a kid his age."

JJ looked at her boss. "I do. I'm having trouble reading him but he seemed beyond sincere, like he wanted these people behind bars."

"I'll draw up the forms." Hotch nodded. "In the mean time, see if you can talk to him some more. Maybe grab something for him to eat. Try to keep him talking."

Upon re-entering, JJ was greeted by another drawing, this with **VENICE** written in the centre at the top, the letters with a slight curl that made her consider what his natural writing looked like. The vertical lines of the letters led her to another conclusion. Based on her analytical knowledge of writing, how straight the letters were suggesting that he was rather stressed out. Holmes didn't look up when JJ entered, certainly not, rather he stared at a blank sheet of paper and tapped his pen ferociously against it, like considering what to draw this time. But rather than begin to draw, Holmes began to scrawl out words in tidy lines like he did it for fun.

"What'cha got there, Spencer?" She asked, sitting back down at the table.

* * *

At seven thirty in the morning on July 9th, 2003, a young man with mahogany hair tucked carefully behind his ears looked up at the building that was to become his home over the coming years. His gaze was calculated and calm, betraying not a lick of the anxieties he possessed. His face, too, was impassive as a cool breeze blew through Quantico; it ruffled his smooth hair and rustled through the flags hanging off the large FBI building. A collected smile came across his face, and Spencer Holmes finally began to move, his feet carrying through a set of doors.

He too the elevator up, and entered the bullpen of the BAU's floor. His confidence wavered for a second, and then he was greeted by a tall blonde woman, her hair resting in soft waves around her shoulders. Instantly, Spencer recognized the woman from a few years previously.

"Hi," she greeted him with a bright smile. "I'm Agent Jareau, is there anything I can help you with?"

Spencer returned the smile, warmth melting across his stoic features. "Yeah, I'm looking for the office of an Aaron Hotchner? Do you know where that might be?"

If she was surprised by his accent, she didn't show it. Agent Jareau gave a cheerful nod and gestured towards an office. "Agent Hotchner should be up there. I take it you're the new agent we've been expecting?" Seeming even warmer then than she had four years previously, Spencer found his grin growing.

"SA Spencer Holmes, pleasure to meet you."

With those words he slipped past her with a small wave and a slight duck of his head. "Good to see you again. Better circumstances, eh? Did I ever tell you how I learnt to draw?" The final sentence was called over his shoulder as he made his way up the stairs.

"Agent Hotchner," he greeted his new supervisor. "I take it everything was explained to you?"

The stoic man gave a nod, gesturing for Spencer to sit. "Your agency? Frankly I don't agree with the idea of spies as young as you were, but given your success rates I am forced to accept it."

"This is tough, but we're tougher," Spencer quoted back.


End file.
